


Collateral Damage

by Elycien



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Genocide, Hurt/Comfort, Slavery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-03
Updated: 2017-12-09
Packaged: 2019-01-28 19:01:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12613288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elycien/pseuds/Elycien
Summary: After the death of the Founders and the fall of the Dominion, the Founders' genetically engineered servants have not fared well on their own - and Quark winds up more involved than he ever wanted to be when he discovers the former Dominion diplomat Weyoun being illegally sold on a Ferengi station in the Gamma Quadrant.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please enjoy this self-indulgent AU about making a handful of my favorite DS9 characters suffer. You can find me on Tumblr as hyperlightrifter - feel free to send me a message if you want to talk about DS9 or Vorta or just say hi!

The deal was really going  _ incredibly _ well.

Quark laughed, simpered, and poured another glass for his newfound business partner, a square-shouldered alien man with mandibles that twitched distractingly when he got excited. A Krollian, that was the name of his species, from a former Dominion system that had done rather well for itself after the empire’s destruction. Quark had this sale in the bag already, no question, but a little extra flattery and fine Romulan ale never hurt any business proposition. Besides, the man was a known smuggler, and despite the somewhat lax enforcement of contraband laws on Ferengi colonies, Quark had known it would take a little effort to get him to open up and trust him with the  _ real  _ valuables in his possession. All he had to do was be patient.

“You’re not bad for a Ferengi, Quark,” the man said, chuckling. “You appreciate the finer things in life, I can tell.”

Quark shrugged modestly. “What can I say? I’m a man of culture, just like you.”

“Of course,” said the Krollian, grinning, and leaned forward. His voice lowered conspiratorially despite the fact that they were alone in his lodgings on the station. “You know, I’ll be having a private auction tomorrow night for some… merchandise… I haven’t shown yet. Very exclusive. Thought you might be interested.”

“Oh?” Quark leaned in too, matching the other man’s conspiratorial tones. “I dare say I might be. What kind of merchandise have you got?”

“Now, Quark, I can’t spoil the surprise,” the man said, pretending to be offended. “That wouldn’t be  _ fair. _ But just between you and me…” Absurdly, he leaned even closer, and Quark had to fight the impulse to recoil from the man’s breath, sour with alcohol. His mandibles were twitching eagerly. “How’d you like to own a piece of the Dominion?”

Now  _ there _ was a name that brought back some bad memories, and perhaps explained a great deal of the smuggler’s secrecy. Dealing in items from the fallen empire that had once ruled the Gamma Quadrant was not illegal, but it was a sensitive topic that could only be discussed in certain company. Still, Quark was intrigued. Dominion technology could be worth a lot to the right buyers. As long as-- he frowned, eager yet wary. “I don’t deal in weaponry, you understand--”

His new business partner laughed. “Oh, nothing like that. Just some interesting little... trinkets. Collectors’ items, you might say. How about it? Will you be here?”

Quark grinned.  _ Jackpot. _ “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

\--

The auction was fairly uneventful, at first. Quark’s assessment of the Krollian had been spot on - he had a good eye for value, knew what he was doing where business was concerned - but none of the items he’d showcased so far had been anything of particular interest to Quark. Still, it wasn’t exactly a waste of an evening. Developing a good business relationship with the Krollian looked like it would be profitable, considering his ties to the Gamma Quadrant’s criminal underworld. He’d already made at least three good contacts and was betting on a couple more before the evening was through.

“And now, friends, for my rarest item,” announced the Krollian, emerging again from his back room, and Quark turned away from the Karemma he’d been chatting up to keep half an eye on the continuing auction. Just in case. “This is an opportunity you will not want to miss - the chance to own a genuine Vorta.”

Quark started and turned his attention in full to the Krollian, certain at first that he’d misheard. It soon became clear that he had not. The man had brought out a Vorta: an actual, living Vorta, leashed and collared with his wrists shackled behind his back. It took Quark a few moments to recover from his shock, and then several more to realize that he  _ recognized _ the Vorta’s thin, bruised face. He hadn’t met many Vorta in his life, but that had to be Weyoun, the former Dominion diplomat who’d once lived on Deep Space Nine during the Dominion occupation. Quark was fairly sure that particular Weyoun had been killed (and good riddance: the man’s presence had been  _ terrible _ for profits, not to mention the fact that he’d nearly executed Rom) but considering that the Vorta were clones, it was not terribly surprising that he’d survived in some form.

For a few minutes, the only thoughts going through Quark’s mind were a litany of every swear word in every language he could think of. This was  _ not _ what he’d signed on for. It more than explained the Krollian’s secrecy, at least; slave trading was one of the few forms of commerce outlawed on Ferengi outposts. Getting the captive Vorta here would have taken some clever subterfuge or some substantial bribes, or both. The fact that the Krollian trusted Quark enough to let him in on this kind of auction would have been flattering if the situation wasn’t also so horrifying.

He didn’t miss the way the atmosphere in the room had suddenly shifted, either. It occurred to him now just  _ how many _ of the Krollian’s contacts and business partners were former members of the Dominion. The chained Vorta was attracting a great deal of attention, and Quark didn’t like it. The Karemma he’d been talking to leaned forward, a keen, cold look in his eye. It reminded Quark of a predator who’d just spotted something bleeding and weakened.

It wasn’t difficult to understand. Of course they hated the Vorta.  _ Quark  _ hated the Vorta - this one in particular, even, or at least the previous clone that he’d met. But it made his skin crawl all the same. Quark turned his attention to Weyoun as the Krollian paraded him in front of the room, jovially making his sales pitch. It was difficult to believe this was even a clone of the same man; the Weyoun that Quark had known had been smug and arrogant and ingratiating, a viper with poorly concealed fangs.  _ This _ Weyoun was silent, unsettlingly violet eyes downcast, mutely following the Krollian’s directions to turn around in front of the prospective buyers so they could see him at all angles. He was thinner than the one Quark remembered, although that might have only been in contrast with the hulking Krollian standing next to him. What Quark had initially taken for an earring was a small metal tag, hanging from a crude piercing through the ridge of Weyoun’s left ear.

All of this was far more illegal than Quark usually went in for. If he went through the correct channels, he could have Weyoun confiscated and the Krollian arrested. He might even make a profit on it, if he could convince the inspectors to look the other way as he commandeered some of the other confiscated goods. But it was not that simple. He knew how people like this operated; he was one of them, in a way. One whiff of the F.C.A. or any other regulatory officials and they’d scatter, and the Vorta with them. And Quark had no way of knowing how much he could trust the officials on this station. He wasn’t on Deep Space Nine; there was no shapeshifter who could ooze into the room undetected, only a bevy of Ferengi enforcers who might well have accepted bribes to get the captive Vorta onto the station in the first place.

The Krollian grabbed Weyoun’s chin and forced his head up, showing his face to the audience. Though his blank expression didn’t change, the Vorta flinched slightly at the touch. “Who will start the bidding?” the Krollian called out.

Quark’s internal monologue of cursing was back again, and louder, as he slowly raised his hand, forcing a disinterested expression on his face. If the F.C.A. didn’t reimburse him after this for doing their job for them, he was going to have to do something drastic. Already, in the back of his mind, he was planning out a call to his brother about the ineptitude of the enforcers on this station. Being the Grand Nagus’s brother could be good for something on occasion.

In the end, winning the auction to buy the damned Vorta nearly cleaned him out. Quark was internally fuming, though he was all smiles and flattery as he went to collect his purchase from the Krollian. “You’ve got a bargain there, Quark,” the Krollian said, beaming. “Keep the collar, if you like, though this one’s well-trained enough that it might not matter. Still, if he gives you any trouble…” He punctuated his words with a sharp jerk on the leash, and Quark’s ears picked up the faint buzz of electricity from the collar. Weyoun gasped in pain and fell to his knees, trembling slightly. 

Quark’s attempt at a smile was more of a grimace as he gingerly reached out and took the leash from the Krollian’s hands before he could do anything else with it. “You, uh, you people sure hate Vorta here in the Gamma Quadrant,” he said. He didn’t have to look around to know that the Krollian’s rough treatment of Weyoun wasn’t attracting any concerned attention.

“Oh, I don’t know if I’d put it that harshly,” the Krollian remarked. “The Vorta were bred for servitude. Who are we to deny them that?” 

“I guess when you put it like that,” Quark said, laughing nervously. “Thank you for the invitation, it was a very… profitable evening.” He couldn’t believe he managed to say that with a straight face. “I  _ do _ hope you’ll keep me in mind in the future when you need a supplier in the Alpha Quadrant…” A daring statement, considering Quark was going to turn the man over to the F.C.A. as soon as he possibly could, but he’d always been a smooth liar.

Fortunately the Krollian didn’t appear to suspect a thing, laughing jovially and clapping Quark on the back. “Of course, of course. You’re a man after my own heart, Quark.” Inwardly, the Ferengi shuddered.  _ I sure hope not. _

Making his excuses to the others in the room he’d been talking to, Quark backed his way out of the room, gingerly pulling Weyoun along with him. As soon as he was outside the Krollian’s quarters, he activated the transporter on his ship, beaming both him and the Vorta on board. Immediately Quark dropped the leash, heaving a deep sigh of relief and running his hands over his face. “Okay. _Okay,_ ” he muttered to himself. “Now what.”

What followed was an exercise in frustration, getting the cuffs and collar off Weyoun and settling him into the spare cabin as a passenger on Quark’s ship. It wasn’t that the Vorta was uncooperative - quite the opposite. He followed even the suggestion of a command with alacrity. The problem was that he didn’t seem willing to do much else. When the collar came off, he reached up with one hand to gingerly touch his bruised neck and gave Quark a furtive, confused stare for a few long seconds before quickly tearing his gaze away. 

He didn’t speak, either, at least not until Quark asked him a direct question, and even then his answers were short and clipped. Quark quickly gave up on making small talk. It was a strange contrast to the Weyoun that he remembered, who’d never seemed to have a shortage of charming, empty words for anyone in his company. Typical diplomat, in other words.

It took some annoyingly specific direction to get Weyoun into the small second cabin, and even as he sat down on the bunk inside his movements were slow, wary, as if constantly expecting Quark to rescind the offer. Quark watched him, irritated. The Vorta didn’t say a word, one hand slowly rubbing at his skull behind his right ear in some kind of nervous tic.

Quark crossed his arms. “I don’t suppose you’ll give me any insight into what you want to do next.”

Weyoun’s hoarse voice was barely audible. “Whatever you want from me. I’m here to serve you.”

“No, you’re here until I can figure out what to do with you,” Quark said, adding irritably, “and hopefully get a refund while I’m at it." He paused, watching the Vorta thoughtfully, who still refused to meet his eyes. “You know, I might not be able to send you home, but there is still  _ one _ Changeling around. Better than nothing, right?”

Weyoun’s head jerked up at this, violet eyes fixed on Quark for the first time. “Don’t lie to me, Ferengi,” he said, his voice low and shaking. “I know what happened to the Founders.”

“I’m not lying,” Quark said, his hands automatically raised in a placating gesture. The deadly focus in Weyoun’s eyes made him look far more like the dangerous Dominion representative Quark had known. “There’s at least  _ one _ Changeling left, and I can take you to him--”

“You can do what you want with me, but do not  _ mock _ me,” Weyoun spat. “My gods are dead and I watched them die. I know the truth.”

“Fine,” Quark said, eyes wide and hands still held up between him and the simmering, furious Vorta. “I get it. I won’t say anything else about it. Just calm down.”

Weyoun’s eyes dropped again and his shoulders hunched, curling in on himself. His entire body was tense now, his right hand now pressed so hard into the hollow behind his ear that his arm was shaking. Perhaps he expected retribution for his outburst, but Quark wasn’t sure he dared to try and reassure him. One thing was clear: he was completely, overwhelmingly out of his depth.

Quark backed out of the room slowly without saying anything else, leaving the trembling Vorta motionless on the edge of his bunk. Then he closed the door behind him and turned towards the ship’s comm system.

He had some calls to make.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quark informs Odo about who he's found on his trip to the Gamma Quadrant. Meanwhile, Weyoun spends a restless first night on Quark's ship.

By the time Quark finished his call to Ferenginar, he was exhausted. Rom and Leeta had taken the entire situation far more seriously than he did - apparently, this had been a problem for some time, and not only with the Vorta. There were not nearly as many Jem’Hadar left in the quadrant as there had been under Dominion rule, many of them having taken their own lives when the Changelings were wiped out. But they, just like the Vorta, had been viewed as a potential asset by some of the species they’d once dominated. Ketracel-white was not difficult to produce given the right technology and the formula, and both of those things could be bought just as easily as the genetically engineered soldiers they were used to control.

If dealing in Vorta was inhumane, selling Jem’Hadar was downright dangerous. Quark could appreciate that - he’d grown quite used to  _ not _ worrying that Jem’Hadar were going to take over the station and murder him in his sleep - but a discussion on trade regulations in the Gamma Quadrant was not exactly what he’d wanted. All he needed to know was that the treasury was going to reimburse him for his ordeal with the Krollian. And, ideally, a way to get the Vorta off his ship as soon as possible. Only when both of these questions had finally been settled, as much as they could be, did Quark end the call. He grimaced. One could only take so much of his brother and sister-in-law.

Rom had come to the same conclusion as Quark - the only place to send Weyoun had to be Deep Space Nine, with Odo. There was clearly no point in asking Weyoun if this was where he wanted to go; he didn’t believe there were any Changelings left alive, and Quark wasn’t about to try convincing him. Still, there  _ was _ one person he ought to talk to first, and it wasn’t a conversation Quark really wanted to have. Weyoun wasn’t the only person who didn’t want to be reminded of the Great Link’s ultimate fate.

But there was no helping it. If Odo was surprised by Quark’s subspace call, he didn’t show it. “Quark,” he drawled, crossing his arms in front of him. “To what do I owe the pleasure? I thought you were in the Gamma Quadrant through next week.”

“Don’t look so happy to see me,” Quark said crossly. “No, I’m still in the Gamma Quadrant, but the situation has… changed. I thought I should warn you before I came back--”

“How  _ considerate,” _ Odo put in, smiling thinly at him.

“I’m being serious,” Quark said in a low voice, frowning. He leaned forward. “You remember Weyoun, right?”

“The Vorta?” Odo said sharply. The teasing tone was instantly gone from his voice. “I thought he was killed in the Dominion War. The Vorta cloning facilities were destroyed, so they couldn’t bring him back.”

“Yeah, well, he’s alive. Trust me. Alive and ruining my vacation,” Quark grumbled. “I ran into him here on the colony, and…” He hesitated, wondering how to phrase this.

“Well?” Odo demanded, an edge to his voice. Quark knew him well enough to see the tension in him, knew why it was there: even now, years after the end of the war, any reminder of the Dominion put that particular set in his shoulders. Quark almost hated to be the one to do it to him.

Quark sighed, met Odo’s eyes, and decided to put it bluntly. “He was for sale,” he said. “A Krollian merchant, who I got in touch with when… eh, it’s not important. Point is, I got him back to my ship, and… well… now I’ve got to figure out what to do with him. I’d be happy to send him back where he came from, but…”

“But it’s not as if the Vorta have a homeworld to go back to,” Odo said grimly. “Yes. What are you going to do?”

“Tried asking him, but… didn’t get very far with that.” Quark winced, remembering Weyoun’s blank, deadened stare. “He didn’t believe me when I told him about you, either. But I’ve been talking to Rom and we both think it might be best to send him to you. You’re a Changeling, you might be the only person who could get through to him.” Quark coughed, glancing away from the screen. “For what it’s worth, I agree with him. I don’t know who else we can trust.”

Now he could  _ really  _ tell Odo was disturbed: the Changeling didn’t needle him at all about that last part, a frank admission of trust that would normally have been plenty of fodder for jibes in their adversarial relationship. Instead Odo looked pensive, as if it hadn’t even really registered. At last he sighed. “Yes, I don’t think there are many other options,” Odo said. “Bring him to the station. I’ll do what I can. If there’s anything I  _ can _ do.”

“Thanks,” Quark said, relieved. “Can’t wait to get him off my hands. I’ll be back at the station in a couple days.  _ Try _ not to miss me too much.”

Odo huffed and ended the connection. Quark grinned, but the expression soon faded as he turned and looked towards the spare cabin on his ship where he’d put Weyoun. 

A couple days. He could do that. Surely the reward for turning in the Krollian would make it all worth it.

\---

Weyoun woke with a gasping cry in the darkened cabin, the edges of a nightmare still clutching at his consciousness. It took him a moment to place where he was, and it didn’t quite register until he slowly sat up in the bunk and felt no pressure at his throat. One hand automatically went up to touch his neck. No collar, no tether, and an actual bunk - he wasn’t in the Krollian’s cargo hold anymore. He belonged to the Ferengi now. Quark.

He remembered the man, distantly - the bartender on Deep Space Nine, who’d known his predecessor Weyoun Five. What he was doing in the Gamma Quadrant now, Weyoun couldn’t know, though he also didn’t especially care. One master was much like another, after a while, though at least in his experience the Ferengi did not tend to have the physical strength or the capacity for cruelty that the Krollians did. Whatever Quark intended to do with him now - well - he’d find out soon enough.

The Vorta frowned slightly, remembering Quark’s comments about the Founders from the night before. Perhaps he’d have to revise his opinion of the Ferengi capacity for cruelty.

These thoughts brought him uncomfortably close to the contents of his nightmare, so to distract himself he glanced around the room. In the dim light, he could barely make out its dimensions. Experimentally, he spoke aloud. “Computer, lights.”

He didn’t expect the lights to actually come on. So the ship’s computer would actually respond to him, at least for some things. Interesting. Filing away that piece of information, Weyoun glanced around the room now that he was actually able to see it. It was small, a fairly standard size for a cabin on a private transport, with one unoccupied bunk set into the wall above his. The walls were featureless, aside from the door across from his bunk and a small replicator to his left.

Weyoun could count on one hand the number of times he’d been left alone with a replicator in the last three years. Slowly, gingerly, he stood up and walked across the room to examine it. It certainly seemed to be completely operational, if small. He ran his hand over the front of the console before saying, his voice nearly a whisper, “Knife.”

The replicator chimed once. “Unable to comply. Pattern is not in the database.”

The Vorta sighed, not really surprised. It was unlikely to begin with that a basic replicator would allow the creation of even primitive weapons. Still, it was an opportunity that wasn’t likely to come again. He’d had to at least try.

He asked the computer for the replicator menu and received a short list of foods and beverages. It was not particularly sophisticated, even for a replicator on a small ship; someone had equipped this vessel on the cheap. Weyoun did not really feel like eating, but it had been over a day since the last rations he’d received from the Krollian, and he could not necessarily rely on getting regular meals in the coming days. The replicator allowed him to order a number of its pre-programmed meals, selected almost at random, which he carried back to the bunk and ate while sitting cross-legged against the wall. All of it felt the same in his mouth. He didn’t care.

He should sleep as well, he knew, but--

_ \--falling to pieces in his hands, dust slipping through his fingers, and he is unable to even gather up the remains as he is dragged away-- _

_ \-- _ images from his nightmare, one he’d had many times before, floated too easily to the front of his mind. Weyoun’s body shuddered involuntarily and he curled in on himself, one hand behind his ear, tracing the scar that was all that remained of his termination implant. Leaving the trays from the replicator meals where he’d left them, scattered across the bunk, Weyoun pressed himself into a corner and tried to breathe. 

It didn’t look like he would be sleeping much more tonight. Sometimes it couldn’t be helped.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quark and Weyoun arrive at Deep Space 9, and Weyoun discovers that there is still one Changeling left alive.

The voyage back to Deep Space 9 was uneventful. Weyoun didn’t even try to leave his quarters. Quark could almost have forgotten that the Vorta was there, at least until night: more than once, he could hear Weyoun crying out in his sleep through the bulkheads. Crossly he made a note to himself to have the spare cabin soundproofed more thoroughly. Maybe another species wouldn’t have been able to hear it, but he was a Ferengi.

He supposed he should check on the Vorta in the morning, so he poked his head into the spare cabin and found Weyoun curled up on the bunk where he’d left him, surrounded by small, neat piles of empty replicator food trays. Quark thought for a moment that he was sleeping, but then Weyoun’s eyes opened and widened when he saw the Ferengi. He practically leaped off the bunk, a sudden flurry of movement which sent replicator trays flying. Quark winced at the clatter. Weyoun fell to his knees and bowed his head, hands clasped behind him and body taut. Quark’s brows raised.

“That was… unnecessary, but okay. Just making sure you're still alive in here.”

Weyoun didn't raise his head. “Yes, Master,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.

“Also, you don't have to call me that. Just Quark is fine. Or Master Quark, if you want to split the difference.” Weyoun said nothing. Quark stared at him, feeling profoundly awkward. “You know those trays will go away if you put ‘em back in the replicator, right?” The Vorta cast Quark a furtive, confused glance, and nodded silently. Quark sighed.

“All right, I’m glad we had this talk,” he said, brows raised in exasperation. “You, uh, you let me know if you need anything. I’ll be out there.” He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder at the open door, and slowly backed away out of it. Weyoun didn’t move. As soon as the door closed he heard a clatter - the Vorta either taking his suggestion and ridding himself of the empty trays, or possibly crawling back into his weird nest on the bunk.

Quark turned his eyes skyward in silent dismay, then made his way back to the bridge. He already needed a drink.

When they were within range of Deep Space 9, Quark received instructions to dock at a secure bay in one of the upper pylons, where security and a medical team would be standing by. He was suddenly very glad that he hadn’t actually purchased anything illegal that he intended to keep, and peevishly wondered whether the security team was because of Weyoun or if it was merely another excuse for Odo to have his ship inspected.

As if he’d be stupid enough to leave something incriminating on his ship where Odo could find it. Honestly.

The constable wasn’t there to meet them at the airlock, but Dr. Bashir was, somehow looking both very serious and _intensely_ curious. Quark saw him note Weyoun’s subdued demeanor right away, his frown deepening as he noticed the bruising and scars on the Vorta’s neck. “Welcome back, Quark,” he said, walking up to them with his medical tricorder already in hand. After a moment, he added calmly, “Weyoun. I didn’t expect to see you again.”

Weyoun’s eyes flicked to the doctor warily, then back down. He didn’t answer.

“Where’s Odo?” Quark said.

“Dealing with an incident on the Promenade,” Bashir said. “He’ll meet us in the infirmary when he’s done.” He was focused on the tricorder, frowning slightly at the readings. Weyoun was frowning too, looking slightly less vacant at the mention of Odo.

“Odo was infected by the same disease that killed the rest of the Founders,” Weyoun said suddenly, still looking at the floor.

“No,” Bashir said. “Or rather, yes, he was, but we were able to find a cure.” He paused, and his voice softened. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry that cure didn’t make it to the rest of his people in time to save them. I wanted to help them, I truly did.”

Weyoun actually looked up and met Bashir’s eyes for a couple of minutes, his expression unreadable. For a moment it looked as if he might speak, but then he quickly looked away, eyes fixed on the ground as he fought to keep some emotion off his face. Bashir didn’t press, turning his attention back to his tricorder. “Well, considering what you’ve been through, you’re doing as well as could be expected. I'd still like to take you to the infirmary to run some more detailed diagnostics, if that's okay.” He waited for Weyoun’s response. After a couple moments of silence, the doctor prompted gently, “Is that all right with you, Weyoun?”

The Vorta’s head jerked up, startled. Hesitantly he nodded, his eyes searching Bashir’s face as if trying to figure out if this was a trap. Bashir looked to Quark. “Are you coming?”

Quark shrugged, trying not to look as if he cared. “Guess I’ve got nothing better to do.”

Weyoun submitted to the examination with the same indifference he showed toward everything else, following Bashir’s instructions silently and giving short, clipped answers to the doctor’s questions. As he was holding out his arm for Bashir to take a sample of blood, the door slid open and Odo stepped inside.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, Doctor, I--”

Quark, however, was still watching Weyoun’s reaction; his eyes were wide as soon as Odo entered the room, and he almost looked as if he was in pain. Odo’s voice broke off as Weyoun surged to his feet, almost shoving Bashir out of his way in his haste. Then, after mutely staring at Odo for a couple long seconds, he abruptly collapsed, prostrating himself at the Changeling’s feet.

Quark felt a shiver crawl up his spine. This wasn’t the practiced, trained response which had prompted Weyoun to kneel before him earlier; this was something else, something deeper. He’d fallen so quickly it looked as if his legs had suddenly given out, and now he was visibly trembling.

“My Founder,” Weyoun said, his voice choked and partially muffled from the way he’d pressed his face into the floor. “I… I…”

“Get up,” said Odo, looking deeply uncomfortable. Weyoun scrambled to his feet, still shaking. His eyes were wet.

“Forgive me, Founder,” he whispered hoarsely. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I--”

“Calm down,” Odo said, his voice verging on desperate, and he cast Bashir a helpless, harried look. “It’s - it’s all right. Maybe you should let Dr. Bashir finish your examination.”

“Of course, Founder,” Weyoun murmured, and scurried back to sit on the examination table. He was still visibly agitated. Bashir looked at him, frowning, then approached Odo and placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Maybe you’d better wait outside until we’re done here,” he said in a low voice. Odo nodded curtly.

“I think that would be best.”

As Odo turned to go, Weyoun’s wide-eyed gaze fixed on him, a terrified, soundless plea. “I’ll be right outside,” Odo said. “You’ll be safe with Dr. Bashir. You have my word.”

He left, and Quark watched Weyoun’s entire body sag on the examination table. His face was pale, wide-eyed and tight-lipped, and even now he had not completely stopped trembling. Something about seeing Odo had completely ripped away whatever facade Weyoun had left, and there was something disturbing about the raw, uncontrolled emotion on the Vorta’s face. Quark tore his gaze away and left the room to go find Odo.

He was pacing in the small corridor outside the examination room, his face stony. Quark stood next to the door and folded his arms. “Odo…”

Odo stopped, but didn’t turn around. “I don’t know what you expect me to do about this, Quark,” he growled.

“That makes two of us,” Quark said.

“Why’d you really bring him here, Quark? What are you after?” Odo rounded on him, but rather than the suspicious glare which usually accompanied such questions, his expression was closer to despair. Quark met his eyes.

“If you’d seen where he was before, you wouldn’t have to ask me that,” the Ferengi said, his voice low. “Look, you saw him. He’s a mess. Where else could he go?”

“I’m not what he wants.” Odo’s voice was hard. “I’m not a Founder.”

“Maybe it doesn’t matter if you are. Just about anything’d be better than where I found him.” Quark watched Odo for a moment, frowning. The Changeling was more visibly agitated than Quark had seen him in a long time. Maybe this wasn’t the best idea after all. Odo had done his best to forget the Dominion, and Weyoun was the tangible, visibly traumatized reminder of everything Odo had tried to put behind him.

Before either of them could say anything more, Bashir came out of the examination room to speak to Odo. “He’s in rough shape,” he said. “I’ve taken care of what minor scrapes and bruises he had, but he still has some older injuries which never healed properly in the first place, and those will be more complicated to treat. He’s underweight and malnourished. Recovery is going to take some time… and there’s the psychological trauma to consider as well.” He tapped his tricorder absently against his thigh, watching Odo with a frown. “I know this is a lot to take in,” he added softly. “Have you decided what you want to do?”

“It was my understanding that Quark…” A sidelong glance at the other man. “That the Ferengi Alliance would release Weyoun into my custody.”

“If you want my recommendation,” Bashir said gently, “I’d like to keep him in the infirmary for a few days, so I can monitor his diet and make sure there aren’t any complications I’ve overlooked. Once he’s settled in, I’m going to ask Ezri to give him an evaluation.” He paused, studying Odo’s face. “There are options, Odo. You have time to make up your mind. And the Federation has the resources to help someone with this kind of trauma, even a Vorta. You don’t have to take on all the responsibility alone.”

“Unfortunately, Doctor, I have the responsibility whether I want it or not. _My_ people forced the Vorta to depend on them,” Odo said. “I can’t help but feel I have a duty towards those they left behind.” He sighed. “But… I’m grateful for your help. I have no problem leaving Weyoun in your care for now, unless he… has any problem with that?”

Bashir hesitated. “I think… it may be some time before Weyoun feels capable of making choices for himself. He was a slave for three years, and he still thinks like one. But if you want to talk to him, I’m sure that will go a long way toward reassuring him that he’s safe here.”

“I think I will.” Odo nodded curtly. “Thank you, Doctor.”

“If you two have this all worked out, I’m going to give my brother a call,” Quark said. “He wanted to know when everything was settled with the Vorta. Keep me informed, will you? This is the most interesting thing that’s happened here in ages.” He was almost being truthful, too. _Was_ being truthful, if you disregarded the interesting things that Odo wasn’t to know about.

Odo snorted. “I’m sure you’ll stay informed whether I want you to be or not,” he said, and there was something reassuring about how easily he fell back into their habitual banter. “Tell Rom he can contact me if he needs any additional information.”

“Will do.” Quark turned and left, raising a hand to Bashir as a casual farewell.

\---

Weyoun lifted his head as the door slid open, and immediately sprang to his feet as he saw Odo step into the room. “Founder,” he said softly, spreading his hands and bending slightly at the waist in the posture of submission he’d never once offered to any of his solid masters no matter how often he was forced to kneel to them. His heart was pounding in his chest, his mind curiously blank.

Odo hated him, had hated him long before his worst failures and the death of the Great Link. There was nothing he could do about that. All he could do was demonstrate the depth of his loyalty as best as he could and await Odo’s judgment.

“Just… call me Odo,” the Founder said, and then added, “...Please.”

“As you wish, Odo,” Weyoun said, not moving, resisting the urge to fall to his knees. Odo had already made clear that he did not want such a display. There was an uncomfortable silence, and unable to bear it he blurted out, “Please… tell me how I can serve you. If there’s anything you want from me, anything at all…”

“Dr. Bashir would like you to remain in the infirmary for a little while longer,” Odo said. “You… should have proper medical treatment after everything you’ve been through. I can promise that no harm will come to you while you’re here.” He paused. “What is it?”

Weyoun flinched, realizing his face must have betrayed some sign of his misgivings. He was frowning. “I don’t mean to question you, of course, but I…” He swallowed. “You do know what they _did?_ ” His voice was nearly a whisper.

Odo looked puzzled. “What _who_ did?”

“The Federation,” Weyoun said, bowing his head further so he was staring down at the floor. “They… engineered the virus which destroyed the Great Link.”

“I know,” Odo said shortly. “And Dr. Bashir did everything he could to engineer a cure. He saved my life, Weyoun. I don’t hold him responsible for… for what happened.” He made a noise similar to clearing his throat, another habit he must’ve picked up from the solids who raised him. “If you are uncomfortable with Federation doctors--”

“No!” It came out fast, too fast, and Weyoun flushed, still staring at the floor. “If they are your allies, they are mine. That is enough for me.”

And he _had_ to make that true somehow, because the other Founders were dead. His loyalty towards Odo was all that mattered. It was still… disorienting.

Odo nodded. “Good,” he said, though he still sounded uncertain. Weyoun hoped he was misinterpreting the Founder’s tone; he wanted Odo to be sure of him. “Then you can remain here for the time being. I’ll arrange for more permanent quarters when you’re discharged.”

He turned to go, and Weyoun’s heart clenched. “Founder! _Odo,_ ” he added, hastily correcting himself and trying not to flinch when Odo looked back at him.

“What is it?”

The words on the tip of his tongue were unacceptable - _stay. Please don’t go._ To make demands of a Founder, no matter how lenient Odo was compared to the others… no. Weyoun forced himself to stop. “...Thank you,” he said instead, his voice small.

Odo’s voice was strangely gentle. “No one deserves what happened to you,” he said softly. “You don’t need to thank me for doing what’s right.”

And then he left, and Weyoun was alone again. The Vorta wrapped his arms around himself as he sank slowly back down onto the edge of examination table, his shoulders hunched. For Odo to be the last surviving Founder… he was terribly, _painfully_ glad to know there was at least one Founder left in the galaxy… and yet. Odo, he knew, did not want his worship. He didn’t want a servant.

So where, Weyoun wondered, did that leave him?


End file.
